


Full Circle

by cumberqueer (chemma66)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parentlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22470754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemma66/pseuds/cumberqueer
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has noticed that his best friend and crime-solving partner John Watson is doing well - too well for what they've been through, if you ask him. Sherlock is worried John is seeing someone that is making him very happy, and intends to find out who. But first: data.Featuring a spreadsheet of John Watson's Smiles, a parentlock makeover for 221b, and John being charming af.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 95
Kudos: 509





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY JOHNLOCK DAY!!
> 
> What started as a tweet about how cute it would be if Sherlock noticed John's smiles and laughter - not realizing it's all due to him - has now (finally) made its way here. This fic has been my happy place over a very rough year, and I hope it can offer you the same.
> 
> I wouldn't be posting this today without the help of [disaronnus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disaronnus/pseuds/disaronnus) and [Silvergirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvergirl/pseuds/Silvergirl) who volunteered to beta when I was ready to trash this whole thing. Their helpful corrections and encouraging comments were everything I needed. 
> 
> Also, the Writer's Retreat server and the folks I've come to know there have been instrumental in keeping me inspired. I adore you all!!

It was approximately 2 months, 3 days, and 11 hours since the Eurus Debacle when Sherlock Holmes witnessed John Watson smiling again. 

John had brought Rosie over to Baker Street for just the third time (despite Mrs. Hudson begging at any possible moment), thankfully this visit lasting more than twenty minutes. John felt comfortable enough to feed Rosie in the kitchen now that he’d thoroughly inspected it; Sherlock had assured him countless times that he had disinfected everything as soon as he knew Rosie was coming. 

Rosie had been fussing, so Sherlock volunteered to help with feeding time. John reluctantly agreed and set them up at the kitchen table. Things were going moderately well when Rosie decided that four tiny spoonfuls of carrots in a row was one too many and rejected the next with a fling of her hand. The viscous glob landed right on the chest of Sherlock’s posh burgundy shirt, creating a streak of mess as it slid down his front.

Sherlock was stunned for a moment, both by the quick reaction from the toddler and the peculiar flight trajectory of the food, staring at the glob as it slowly fell into his lap. With its final plop onto his pants, John let out a tiny noise.

Sherlock looked up to find John smiling directly at him and momentarily forgot how to breathe. For a while, he had thought he might never see that smile again; to be a part of the reason it was there was more than Sherlock had ever hoped.

Once he recovered, he swiftly scooped the carrot mess into his finger and with a smirk, flicked it over onto John’s jumper.

“Hey!” John said. “This is one of my last few clean ones.”

“A shame,” Sherlock said, turning back to his task of feeding. “The garish pattern must mean it’s a favourite.”

“Arse,” John muttered, still smiling. Sherlock wondered if he could keep it there forever.

“My apologies, Miss Watson, for the vulgar language of this man here,” Sherlock said in a very serious tone to Rosie. 

Rosie babbled something in return.

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Sherlock answered, stealthily scooping up a bit more carrot onto his finger and flicking it at John without looking.

“You jerk,” John said, standing up to grab a towel from the counter. “You just signed yourself up for feeding duty for the foreseeable future.”

John wiped the bits of pureed food from his jumper and tossed the towel at Sherlock’s face for good measure. Rosie giggled at them both, using her fist to smear food all over her face in solidarity.

“I look forward to it,” Sherlock said from underneath the towel.

~~~~~~

It was barely three days later when Sherlock saw the smile again. John was sitting in his chair in the living room, looking down at his phone. Sherlock was in the kitchen, labelling slides in preparation for samples he’d take tomorrow at Barts. They’d been working in companionable silence for an hour or so, and Sherlock was idly wondering if John had fallen asleep. He glanced over and saw John smiling to himself, an involuntary feeling of warmth blooming in his own chest at the sight.

Then suddenly: panic.

Who was putting this smile on John Watson’s face? They’d not spoken or interacted for the past hour, so logically it couldn’t be Sherlock. But if it wasn’t Sherlock, and it wasn’t Rosie, then that left undesirable options or even worse, the unknown. 

A faceless figure materialized in his mind, one whom he instantly hated for barging into their lives  _ just _ when things were settling down once more. His treacherous mind supplied many different scenarios in which John became attached to said figure and decided they were more important than the life he and Sherlock had built together. (Again.) 

Previous plans for an evening of lazy violin to practice the handful of lullabies he’d been learning for Rosie were immediately discarded as Sherlock opened his email. He scrolled for a few minutes before he found a decent 5.

“John, I could use your assistance this evening,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his phone. If John claimed to be busy, he had three other ideas he could deploy.

“Case?” John said, already standing up. “I’ll go see if Mrs. Hudson can keep Rosie tonight.”

Sherlock nodded, barely able to contain his own delight. As John made his way downstairs, Sherlock opened a new spreadsheet on his laptop, naming it something obscure with just a ‘J’ and the date so he could access it easily. He quickly recorded today’s smile as well as the first one from a few days past, and began plotting.

John came back triumphant, Mrs. Hudson jumping at the chance to spend more time with Rosie; they set off soon after. 

Sherlock prided himself that John didn’t look at his phone for the entire night, other than to check in with Rosie. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock’s mind had been a barreling freight train fraught with possibilities for John’s newfound joy. Each scenario played through his mind and ended badly: John dating, getting married, moving away, moving further away, never moving back, never seeing John and Rosie again…

Sherlock could not let that happen.

~~~~~~

It was 2 months, 24 days, and 5 hours since All of That Mess when Sherlock heard John laugh again.

Sherlock had been keeping track on his spreadsheet, noting an increase in smiles and general happiness these past few weeks. Still, until today the “laugh” column had remained empty. He loved John’s laugh, loved it even more when he was the one to spark it. Today it was a full throated, eye-crinkling laugh that surely knocked John’s head back just slightly. If he was standing, he’d put his hand on his stomach; if sitting, on his thigh.

Unfortunately Sherlock heard it rather than seeing it himself, just as he was coming around the corner of the clinic where John worked. It was the second time this week he’d stopped by, though to be fair the first was with fair warning and for a specific question about blood coagulation for a time-sensitive experiment. John hadn’t been answering his phone fast enough.

Today, Sherlock had hoped to either convince John to leave early with him or at the very least agree to lunch together (and then Sherlock would convince him to leave early once he was out).

John rounded the corner shortly after his laugh petered out, a pleasant look of surprise lighting his features when he spotted Sherlock.

“Hey you,” John said. “I was just about to text you. Didn’t think you’d be coming by, what’s that-- twice this week?”

“I was in the area,” Sherlock said, waving his hand in the hopes that he’d come off as nonchalant. 

“Something on?” John asked.

“Possibly. Are you busy?” Sherlock asked.

“Nope,” John said with a smile. “Last few patients I had cancelled and Rosie’s at daycare till six, so I was on my way to Baker Street.”

Sherlock looked down at his phone, taking note of the time and doing quick math. He had at least two (possibly three) cases that could be solved in that time frame, but had to choose carefully in order not to leave John with any possible free time. The possibilities of that free time worried Sherlock immensely.

“Follow me,” Sherlock replied, unable to control his smirk as he and John sprung into action. 

This feeling of true belonging, only ever experienced with this singular human, was more addicting than Sherlock could have ever anticipated. He knew then as he knew in the beginning that he would go to great lengths to keep this feeling and this person by his side.

~~~~~~

Sherlock logged his observations in the spreadsheet with worry as John’s visible happiness had increased, both in smiles and laughter. This week alone, he’d laughed approximately 5 times since his last, a massive inflation from his established norm.

Sherlock had taken care to register the cause of each: usually a rush of adrenaline or a funny phrase, response depending on the connection to the source. Sometimes it was something Sherlock said or did, more often it was Rosie, and rarer still the occasional stranger or acquaintance.

Today, he watched John sitting just a few feet from him in the living room and gazing into the distance with a smile on his face, phone in hand but not engaged.

_ This _ smile Sherlock did not know. He wasn’t sure where it came from, or who caused it. And that made him worry. 

The most obvious conclusion would be that John had checked his phone for a message, resulting in his current surge of happiness. Likely it was not Lestrade (they’d seen him earlier that day) or Harry (currently not sober and not talking). Then  _ who _ ?

The faceless figure returned, and Sherlock felt his palms begin to sweat. 

“John,” Sherlock said, still “studying” the slide at his microscope. 

“Hm?” John looked up, smile lingering.

“Rosie will be waking up in a few minutes and will be hungry,” Sherlock said. Rosie wasn’t too fussy after her naps, and could probably stand the trip home before dinner. But Sherlock hoped that John would not think of this.

“Hm, probably right. I think there’s still some lunch left over for her,” John replied, hoisting himself up from his chair and walking to the fridge.

“What about us, then?” John asked, pulling an already-opened jar of baby food from the fridge. “Takeaway?”

Sherlock deliberated for a moment, tilting his head to the side as he breathed deeply, humming in thought.

“Mrs. Hudson just took out her roast from the oven. She’ll want us and Rosie to join her,” Sherlock answers, looking back down at his slide.

“Brilliant,” John answered, hand brushing Sherlock’s shoulder and giving it a light squeeze as he passed by on the way back out. 

Sherlock spent the time it took John to climb the stairs just attempting to control his reaction, the handprint seared on his shoulder and the redness in his cheeks far too dramatic for the small exchange. He finally managed some semblance of normal by the time John came back down.

Dinner was of course delicious; both John and Sherlock ate their fill as Mrs. Hudson delighted in attempting to feed Rosie her own. Their wine glasses refilled more than once as they talked, sharing stories and listening to Rosie babble between bites. 

They wished Mrs. Hudson goodnight after offers of dish duty were waved away, sleepily making their way back up to 221B.

Sherlock pretended to arrange a few things with his microscope in the kitchen while he waited for John to (hopefully) decide to stay here that night; he’d counted on the heavy meal and wine for just that.

“I suppose it’s too late to head back now,” John said, holding an already sleeping Rosie in the crook of his arm.

“Hm,” Sherlock agreed. “Cabs will be impossible.”

They probably wouldn’t be, but Sherlock knew that John wouldn’t fight it now.

“Just wish I’d thought to bring her things over,” John said, holding Rosie snugly as he leaned down to gather a few dirty mugs from the living room. “We don’t have much here.”

The comment sent a shock of dull pain through Sherlock, though he knew John never intended it that way. His face fell, knowing that this was not the place that John and Rosie called home.

“Can I-- I can ask Mrs. Hudson…” Sherlock trailed off, not quite knowing what John and Rosie might even need.

“No, no, don’t worry about it,” John said, depositing the mugs into the sink before turning to Sherlock. Rosie’s mouth was open against his shoulder, a patch of drool already gathering. “I’ll be up early and get her back home for breakfast, she won’t even notice.”

Sherlock nodded, busying himself with arranging slides and adjusting the knobs of his microscope.

“Sleep well, Sherlock,” John said, stopping by his side on the way toward the door. Again, he brushed his hand along Sherlock’s shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze before moving away. 

“Good night, John,” Sherlock murmured in return.

Sherlock slept fitfully that night despite John and Rosie’s presence, knowing they would both leave in the morning. The fact that John currently lived so far away introduced major obstacles into Sherlock’s study, complicating things with the lack of data and possibility of unknown variables. And even with John spending more time at Baker Street lately, Sherlock couldn’t fully shake the horrible thought that outside of 221B, John was building a life without Sherlock.

He wished sometimes for the way he used to be: unattached, singular, lonely. Then he remembered the warmth of 221B when John and Rosie were here, the sound of John’s laugh in the living room, the feeling that Sherlock had someone to come home to - and the foreign but tantalizing idea that John and Rosie would look forward to seeing him, as well. He thought of watching Rosie discover each new thing as she grew, every experience more exciting than the last.

And suddenly the faceless figure was there, scooping Rosie into their arms and walking away, hand-in-hand with John. 

Sherlock shook his head to dispel the thought, tossing in his sheets and punching his pillows a bit more forcefully than necessary before slumping back down again. He considered returning to his slides in the kitchen, but worried that any noise would wake Rosie upstairs.

When he had originally taken it upon himself to be the main source of John’s happiness, he’d thought the process would be quite simple. Over the past few months he’d come to realize that his methods, while somewhat successful, were not sustainable in the long term. The consistent worry had taken its toll, not to mention the coordination needed to provide a non-life threatening but still interesting case at least once a week.

Sherlock sat upright, reaching over to pull his phone from the nightstand as he began to formulate his next plan: get John and Rosie to move back home to Baker Street.

  
  


~~~~~~

  
  
  


Sherlock managed to plan the remodeling just right, hiring expedient crews to do weeks of work within a long weekend. The influx of cases had led to an increase in funds, allowing Sherlock to fully indulge in what research referred to as  _ nesting _ .

He scoffed at the concept at first, wanting to remain clinical and detached in order to do his best work. But between picking the right curtains to filter light and sound for the windows, and deciding what food to stock in the fridge for Rosie, Sherlock realized the depth of his attachment. Details that logically wouldn’t matter became important, and a certain sentiment attached itself to special items he came across. 

He distracted himself with the task of setting everything up instead, filling his mind with research and possible daily scenarios. He outfitted John’s bedroom with a new crib, one that could convert into a bed with detachable rails as Rosie grew. He added a much larger dresser in the corner, a bookshelf with toys, games, and baby supplies stocked next to it. He also installed new stain-resistant carpeting and fresh paint, a color that the books promised would be pleasing for parent and child alike.

In the kitchen, he cleared a set of cabinets and installed a new mini-fridge for his experiments. Anything slightly dangerous he baby-locked in high cabinets, freeing space for baby food and formula in the (thoroughly cleaned and disinfected) fridge. 

He went through and removed anything harmful or fragile within four feet off the ground. Most of his collections were hung up or organized, leaving a respectable living room filled with books and seating. 

Sherlock stood in his new flat a week later, phone in hand to text John for dinner. He’d been away for a medical conference and promised to visit as soon as he returned. Sherlock knew it was a perfect opportunity to surprise him, barely even bothering him while he was away.

Now, phone in hand and heart in throat, Sherlock was doubting his plan.

John might see these renovations and say no; it made no sense logically to Sherlock, but he’d learned to factor the sentimental into these decisions. John might see these changes and say  _ yes _ , but Sherlock could have done something wrong. He usually did, if the past was any indication. But then, he argued against himself, it should be considered that John was still here now, despite all that had happened.

Sherlock entertained the idea for a moment: undo everything. Return the items, put things back to the way they were before. Continue as they are, wherever that might lead them. John would date, break up, date again. Get new jobs, maybe move for Rosie to go to school. Get married. Move again. Move further away. Leave for good. Leave him here, take Rosie, and never--

Sherlock felt his heart rate immediately increasing with each new, horrible possibility. He sank into the nearest seat, John’s armchair, as he tried to center himself. It still smelt like John, and Sherlock took the temporary comfort gladly. He worked to get his breathing under control, deep breaths both in and out. 

One thing was abundantly clear to Sherlock: he could not live without John, nor Rosie. They were his family and he wanted them home with him.

Sherlock took another deep breath (smells of John, smells of  _ home _ ) and picked up his phone.

_ Dinner at Baker St tonight? - SH _

_ Sure! On my way to pick up Rosie in a bit. 7:30 okay? _

_ Yes. Looking forward. - SH _

_ See you soon :) _

Sherlock stared at the smiley face John sent for a long, long while before he could put his phone down. Then, he paced the room, head buzzing with a thousand and one different ways that this could go. And even then he knew: John Watson always managed to surprise him.

What must have been an hour but felt like seconds later, he heard a car draw up outside, the sound of John and a carrier exiting the vehicle and approaching the door. Mrs. Hudson met them there, of course. She was now 68% more likely to meet them at the door when they had Rosie, a fact none of them are upset about. 

Once the greetings were done, Sherlock heard John make his way up the stairs. Sherlock hesitated: should he intercept them on the landing, or let them see the drastic changes in the living room first?

He rushed to the door, opening it just as John was approaching.

“John,” Sherlock said, stepping forward and pulling the door to the living room shut behind him.

“Hey Sherlock,” John said carefully, bag balanced on one shoulder and Rosie leaning on the other sleepily; car rides always soothed her. 

“I have something to show you, but we should start upstairs first,” Sherlock explained before smiling at Rosie. “Hello Miss Watson.”

Rosie reached for Sherlock, sending a shot of warmth through him. John held back, still eyeing Sherlock, then the stairs up to John’s room.

“Nothing dangerous?” John asked, always careful.

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock said immediately.

Something in his tone or voice must have conveyed his seriousness, because John nodded just once before handing Rosie over. Sherlock was still getting used to this bit, finding his long limbs unable to cradle as delicately as he saw others do it. Fortunately, he had found Rosie would make herself comfortable however she needed, and Sherlock responded easily to that. John kept a hand on her back until they were situated, a pleased look on his face.

“Alright, let’s see the surprise,” John said, following Sherlock up the steps.

Sherlock waited until John was standing next to him before opening the door. Inside, John’s remodeled room shone with clean surfaces and fresh carpeting, the bed in the same spot in the corner but refitted with new sheets that looked plush and inviting. A large dresser sat across the room, twice the size of the previous dresser to better fit both John’s and Rosie’s clothes and necessities. 

In the corner across from John’s bed, Sherlock had set up Rosie’s convertible cot. A brand new toy box was nearby, resting against the stocked bookshelf. The same desk sat near the door, fitted with a new chair and lamp. 

Altogether it reflected John’s simple style, going just a step or two beyond function into comfort.

“What…” John began, eyes flitting around the space as he tried to take everything in. Sherlock watched him carefully until Rosie stirred at his shoulder, already beginning to look around the room and reach toward things.

“Would you like to see your new toys, Rosie?” Sherlock asked as she looked around, already fixating on the colorful toy box in the corner.

Sherlock walked over, sitting on the soft carpet with Rosie. He pulled the box open, showing her the contents. Rosie immediately thrust her clumsy hands inside, pulling out a soft, stuffed bee. 

“What is all this, Sherlock?” John asked in an indecipherable tone.

“I… I did some work on your room, to make it a bit more amenable. For both of you,” Sherlock explained. 

John chuckled breathlessly, sitting on the bed as he continued to look around. He felt the cushion of the mattress, the softness of the sheets, and smiled back up at Sherlock.

“This is amazing,” John said. “I don’t know why you-- this is fantastic.”

“The dresser is stocked with a few things for you and Rosie, as well. And I bought a selection of books, though I don’t know what stories she prefers,” Sherlock said, leaning over to pull a couple colorful board books from the bottom shelf of the bookcase near him.

“Books?” John said in amazement. He stood slowly, as though he still could not believe the room was real. He moved to sit next to Rosie on the ground across from Sherlock.

“Just a few,” Sherlock said, repeating himself. He didn’t think John noticed.

“This is…” John said again, trailing off as he looked over at Rosie.

She giggled in delight, flinging the bee into the air and crawling back to the box for another toy. She settled in between them, Sherlock’s knee holding her up from behind and John’s leg at her other side. She occupied herself with a dark blue octopus she pulled from the box, attempting to stuff one of the tentacles into her mouth. John’s hand reached over to smooth her hair before landing on Sherlock’s knee.

“Thank you. This is incredible. When did you even find time to do this?” John asked.

“This past weekend, when you were away,” Sherlock explained.

“You did all of this over a weekend? You’re  _ amazing _ ,” John said.

Sherlock had to clear his throat before he could respond.

“There’s more,” Sherlock said, looking back toward the door and downstairs.

“Really?” John asked, surprised. “Sherlock, you didn’t need to--”

“Please,” Sherlock said. “I wanted to.”

John stared up at him, the moment stretching out until Rosie stirred again at his side. John pushed himself to stand, reaching back down to gather her into his arms once more.

“Shall we take your new friends with us, Rosie? See what Sherlock has for us downstairs?” John said, scooping Rosie, the bee, and the octopus up in one go.

Rosie cheered in agreement, a tentacle in one hand and bee wing in the other. Sherlock couldn’t contain his own smile as he led them both back downstairs, even despite his previous anxieties. He knew Rosie’s enthusiasm would give him an advantage, and he counted as a success nearly anything that garnered her happiness. 

He opened the door to the living room, revealing a clean space that looked more or less the same, though the cleaning itself was a great feat. 

“Did you… did you baby-proof?” John asked in amazement, catching sight of the padding Sherlock had added to the sharp corners of their various pieces of furniture.

“Yes. I worked with Rosie’s height, mostly - or lack thereof. Sensitive texts, anything flammable or stabbable, went up,” Sherlock explained, pointing to the shelves and bookcase. 

“You hear that?” John said, bouncing Rosie at his side. “No stabbing or arson. No fun at all.”

Rosie garbled something in return, wiggling and happily chatting with her two soft pals. 

“What’s this in here?” John asked, already peering into the kitchen.

“My new mini-fridge. All of my experiments are in there, and my equipment in the cabinet above,” Sherlock said, pointing to the baby-locked fridge and cabinets. “Everything else is standard kitchen fare. And the fridge is clean and stocked.”

John took in the room slowly, peeking into shelves and jiggling the baby locks on the doors. He opened the fridge, gasping in disbelief as he reached in to grab a random item.

“You bought baby food,” John said in wonder, staring at the jar.

“A variety, with extras that I’ve seen her enjoy. I wasn’t sure exactly, limited data,” Sherlock explained, standing with his hands behind his back as though awaiting instruction.

John looked around once more, as though if he turned away for a second it would all go back to how it used to be. He made his way into the living room, sitting on the couch as he settled Rosie at his feet with her toys. Sherlock followed close behind, careful with his steps. He sank onto the couch next to John, unable to keep from watching his face for any expression.

“I don’t know what to say, Sherlock. Honestly,” John said after a moment.

“You don’t need to say anything. Only--” Sherlock started, hesitating. It was uncharacteristic of him and he hated it. “Only, you might let me know if you like it. If not, I can--”

“I love it,” John said, beaming. “It’s a lot, but… I love it. Really. You’ve done… so much, Sherlock. It’s really amazing.”

“I have?” Sherlock said.

“Are you kidding? Yes. So much for us, even before this. I don’t know where to begin,” John said, reaching over to stroke Rosie’s curls. “You’ve made a space where we’re not just welcome, but wanted. Thank you.”

Sherlock smiled, looked down at his hands and then over at Rosie, a little overwhelmed. 

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it,” Sherlock said.

John leaned back on the couch with a contented sigh.

“Won’t be easy for me to go back,” John said, almost to himself. “To the other place.”

For a brief, tiny moment, Sherlock spiraled into panic at John’s tone: gone was the joy he’d had just seconds before. He remembered then. He had a  _ solution _ .

“Well, that’s…” Sherlock began, stopping to clear his roughened throat. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yeah?” John said, head turned toward Sherlock.

“Would you perhaps consider moving back into Baker Street? With Rosie?” Sherlock asked.

“You-- you want us? Back here?” John asked, sitting up.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered without hesitation.

John looked down at Rosie, still playing with her new toys, babbling and swinging them about. 

“Permanently?” He asked after a long moment.

“John,” Sherlock said. “I remodeled my entire flat in a weekend. Yes, permanently. For as long as you want.” He couldn’t seem to keep himself from grinning. “Until Mrs. Hudson finally kicks us out,” he added with a chuckle.

John joined him, their chuckles blending into full-on laughter. They leaned into each other, heads knocked back and eyes crinkled shut as the tension lifted between them.

“I guess I should have realized sooner,” John said once he could speak. “But it was a bit of a surprise. Still, thank you. Really.”

John started to stand, pausing as he looked at Sherlock. Something different happened to his face, and before Sherlock could decipher what it might be, John opened his arms and beckoned for a hug.

“Can I?” John asked, and Sherlock felt his legs sweep out from underneath him, despite being firmly seated on the sofa. 

Sherlock nodded, John reaching over to pull him into an embrace; it’s a strong, tight hug that Sherlock sinks into easily. They stood like that for a moment until John pulled back, leaving an arm on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Yes,” John said, looking Sherlock in the eyes. “We’ll move back in, if you want us.”

“Why would I have done all of this if I didn’t?” Sherlock asked genuinely.

John chuckled to himself for a moment, rising from his seat and moving toward the kitchen.

“Right. Good,” he said. “I’m glad I already started looking at clinics and daycares in the area.”

Sherlock looked up at John, surprise evident on his face. John glanced back. 

“Just browsing, mind, but I was definitely considering it,” John added with a wink.

Sherlock felt his heart skip in his chest as he watched John make tea in their kitchen, Rosie at his feet babbling with her toys. He felt settled and calm for the first time in months and did his best to bask in the moment, stowing any worry down in the deep corners of his mind. 

~~~~~~

It was 4 months, 6 days, and 2 hours since Everything That Happened when Sherlock saw John smile and laugh in the span of just a few minutes, right there in their kitchen.  _ Twice _ .

And despite the spreadsheet and all its data, despite having John back at Baker Street, Sherlock still could not shake his irrational panic.

According to his data, John’s happiness had increased at an exponential rate for a sustained period of time. Introducing changes affected John’s mood in a noticeable fashion, so Sherlock had reasoned a stable environment would cause his mood to plateau. Sherlock was expecting a few days of skewed results as John and Rosie settled into 221B. 

What he hadn’t expected was a significant increase in John’s happiness without an identifiable source and without a sign of normalising despite the controlled environment.

Sherlock found John that morning positively beaming as he made breakfast for them. Sherlock saw a smile right away, making a mental note to add it to the spreadsheet later. A new column apparently needed to be added, as John took to  _ humming _ as well, a display of joy Sherlock had not yet witnessed.

Internal panic ongoing, Sherlock sat down to have his tea and pretended that all of this was completely normal.

Rosie munched on some kind of cracker, content in her high chair next to him. Sherlock observed her for a moment before picking up the paper across from him. His mind wandered as he skipped through articles, flipping the page every few minutes. Even with near-constant observation, he still could not understand what or  _ who _ was making John Watson so damn happy. Given Sherlock’s data thus far, and accounting for his and Rosie’s impact on John, John’s level of happiness was still increasing with  _ no clear explanation. _

Once breakfast was cleared away, John departed to drop Rosie at daycare before his own shift. Sherlock took advantage of the silence and paced the flat, trying to figure out the missing data point. Back and forth he walked, ruminating over and over again about the evidence gathered thus far: everything pointed to a new presence in John’s life, but Sherlock did not know who it could be, or  _ when _ John even saw them. 

When the living room proved too small for the task, Sherlock slipped on his coat and scarf. Out in the brisk London air, his mind began to clear. He walked, letting his feet carry him wherever they pleased. He moved on auto-pilot, most of his concentration still focused on the question at hand.

When the streets began to darken, Sherlock stopped to take stock of where he was in order to plot his way back home; John would be back soon, so Sherlock planned to pick something up for dinner. His mind on food, his eyes alighted on a restaurant across from him and an idea presented itself.

Instantly, Sherlock had a new plan in place and a restored resolve toward this latest conundrum. He dialed the closest Chinese to their flat as he walked, placing an abundant order and adding in those donuts John liked. He smiled to himself as he made his way back to 221B.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spreadsheet grows and Sherlock arranges a dinner.

It’s been 2 hours and 10 minutes since John’s last smile, and Sherlock is reaching his breaking point. 

He adds a new column after the humming incident and, once he’s updated his notes for the past few days, he realizes how critical the situation has become: the spreadsheet is a mess. The column for random occurrences has eclipsed most of the past month’s worth of data. None of the established parameters make any sense against the frankly ridiculous increase in frequency of the signs of John’s happiness, and Sherlock is both frustrated and extremely worried.

Slamming his laptop shut, Sherlock decides he must confront the problem or else lose control of the situation completely.

By that evening, through minimal convincing, Sherlock has organized a night out for the both of them: Sherlock recommends dinner and a movie while Mrs. Hudson keeps Rosie for the night. John happily, if a bit skeptically, agrees. Sherlock plans to use his chosen location to his advantage and ask John directly about his new attachment, settling the mystery of his newfound happiness.

At least with an answer and the unknown variable solved, Sherlock can formulate some kind of plan. He doesn’t allow himself to think beyond that yet.

After a quick call, Angelo has their spot by the window laid and  _ multiple _ candles burning by the time they arrive. Sherlock watches John carefully for his reaction, relieved when he chuckles at the site.

“Someone should suggest a few other romantic decorations to Angelo before he burns the place down,” John says, skirting around the candle nearest to him as he takes his seat.

“Hm,” Sherlock hums, making a mental note to send Angelo a few articles later pertaining to romantic tropes and fire safety.

“It’d be a shame to lose a place like this, you know?” John says, picking up his menu.

“Angelo does make an excellent gnocchi,” Sherlock replies, glancing at his own before his eyes search the room for their waiter.

“That’s true,” John says, head tilting as he hesitates. “But… it’s important for us, too. Here.”

“Oh?” Sherlock says, immediately focused on John and his serious tone.

“Our first meal together. And first case together, actually,” John says.

“I could argue our first meal was tea at 221B and that the case began in Brixton,” Sherlock says. “But I see your point.”

John smiles at the admission, clearing his throat as he looks down at his menu. Sherlock finds his eyes fixed on John, unable to look away. The significance of this place and where they now find themselves in their lives begins to dawn on him, though his choice was initially based on more surface elements.

“My boys!” Angelo’s voice booms from halfway across the restaurant, a giant smile on his face as he approaches their table. John rises to give him a warm handshake, Sherlock standing to extend his as well. Angelo lets John get away with the handshake, but knocks Sherlock’s aside to give him a hug.

“Always good to see you, Sherlock,” Angelo says, giving his shoulder a good jostle as he steps back.

“And you, Angelo,” Sherlock replies. “Thank you for having our table ready for us.”

“And well lit,” John adds, tossing a wink at Angelo. Sherlock feels his cheeks warm.

“Anytime,” Angelo says. “Anytime. Only the best for you two. I’ll send out a bottle of something nice and make sure Jacob here takes very good care of you.”

Angelo beckons to their waiter, standing nearby to make suggestions as they order. Angelo departs for the kitchen while the waiter brings over a bottle of red wine.

Two generous glasses poured, John leans over to take his own. He contemplates the burgundy liquid for a moment before raising his glass.

“To friends,” John says, tilting the glass forward.

Sherlock picks up his own with a flourish, tapping it lightly against John’s in response.

“To friends,” Sherlock says.

Their eyes remain locked on each other as they sip, a thrill of anticipation running between them; it’s not a brand new feeling, but one that’s not been as familiar of late. Sherlock had been worried that connection had faded, desperately clinging to past interactions and conversations, reliving memories in his head when the space became too much.

These past couple weeks have been bliss, spending most of their free time together and solving cases in between. Sherlock knows that they can’t go back to what they had before no matter how much he longs for it. Though with this latest mystery drawing to a close, he finds himself feeling more himself than he has in some time, due in no small part to the man sitting across from him and his daughter waiting at home.

He considers the liquid in his cup for a brief moment before taking a generous taste. The wine is delicious, of course; John sneaks a second sip as soon as he swallows the first.

“Christ, that’s good,” John says, swirling the liquid.

Sherlock chuckles as he fiddles with the stem of his glass, torn between just enjoying this dinner together and bringing the focus back to the real reason he’s brought John here tonight.

He looks up at John, whose gaze has drifted over the strangers dining with them in the restaurant. They’re surrounded by the usual dinner crowd: scattered couples and the occasional larger group. John focuses on the family of three at the large table in the corner, where a young child waits patiently as one of their parents cuts their dinner into smaller pieces for them. The child kicks their feet back and forth under the chair, the other parent across the table chatting amicably to them.

John smiles, turning his attention back to their table as he lifts his wine glass for another sip. Sherlock shifts in his seat to hide his fidgeting hands.

“The first time we were here, we spoke of attachments,” Sherlock begins.

“Oh, so you  _ do _ remember,” John says, smirking at Sherlock.

“I do,” Sherlock admits. “I’m still unattached, just as I said then.”

“Ah,” John says, lifting a finger to stop him. “You actually said you were married to your work.”

“So I would--” Sherlock nearly plows forward without hearing John. “What?”

“Married to your work, you made that  _ very _ clear,” John continues.

“I didn’t realize the memory was so… distinct for you,” Sherlock says carefully.

“Oh trust me,” John says with a chuckle. “I remember that conversation like it was yesterday.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to continue, but his words have suddenly dried up. He hesitates, reaching for his glass to buy a few moments. John watches him carefully.

“What’s this about, Sherlock?” John prompts.

“I may have been… deflecting a bit,” Sherlock replies. “When I said that.”

“What, then? Or now?” John asks.

“Well, I…” Sherlock stops, frustrated with dancing around the point, tired of not understanding how John feels about him. He answers instead: “I’m not sure.” 

John’s eyebrows shoot up. It’s not often that anyone hears Sherlock admit as much.

“You’re worrying me now. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“Attachments,” Sherlock blurts. “Flatmates should know these things about each other, about attachments.”

“...Okay, I agree with that, I guess,” John answers. “And?”

“For both Rosie’s safety and mine,” Sherlock continues. “It’s important for us to fully vet any  _ new  _ acquaintances that… might become permanent.”

John stares, a furrow between his brows. 

“New acquaintances?” John asks.

“Attachments,” Sherlock clarifies. 

“Right,” John says, shifting in his seat. “I don’t have any new attachments. What is this, Sherlock?”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock says, caught off-guard by the answer.  _ Obviously  _ there had to be someone new in his life to account for the increase in happiness.

“Of course I’m sure,” John says, looking around the restaurant as though the other patrons are in on it. “Did you drug me again?”

“No,” Sherlock says. “But I did hope you’d be honest with me, John. I won’t be upset.”

“I  _ am _ being honest,” John says, picking up his wine to sniff at the contents.

“Your mood has been improving steadily for the past six months, despite our recent trauma,” Sherlock explains.

“...okay?” John agrees, unsure.

“Taking into account your past and the events we endured, with the additional challenges of parenting on your own, the added happiness has to be from an outside source,” Sherlock continues, running through each step of his process.

“Outside source,” John says, suddenly deadpan.

“Yes, exactly,” Sherlock says, excited John has finally understood.

“You want to know if I… have any new…” John repeats.

“New attachments,” Sherlock finishes for him.

“You’re asking if I’m single,” John says, as a smile begins to form on his face.

“I--” Sherlock starts.

“You bastard,” John chuckles, laughing with relief. “You scared me!”

“John, I--” Sherlock tries again, scrambling for words that don’t come. He knows John isn’t  _ wrong, _ but his words shed more light on Sherlock’s inquiry than he had intended. 

“You could have just asked,” John says, still laughing to himself. He pauses to take a large gulp of wine, studying the glass for a moment. “And to think I almost poured this out…”

Sherlock stares blankly at John; hundreds of new possibilities present themselves, all uncharted territory and conclusions he had not accounted for. 

“I didn’t know you were so jealous, Sherlock,” John says, back on familiar ground.

“That’s... not…” Sherlock tries, losing the thread halfway.

“I mean, I don’t mind,” John says, looking almost  _ smug _ . His face changes instantly as he gasps. 

“That’s what all this extra attention has been about, hasn’t it!” John says as he realises.

Sherlock frowns, opens his mouth to reply, then stops. He looks down at his lap, defeated.

“I was worried,” Sherlock admits, hands fidgeting again with anxious energy.

“You don’t need to be,” John replies, gentler. “You could have asked. You’re my best friend, Sherlock. I would tell you.”

“John, I--” Sherlock starts, unable to form the words. He’s embarrassed, staring down at his restless hands and wishing for the waiter to come with their food, or something to light on fire, or a murder or robbery or  _ something _ to get him out of this.

“Sherlock, hey,” John says. “Look.”

Sherlock sighs, expecting some kind of chastising. He’s sure John will hold this over his head for months to come.

“I’m not seeing anyone new,” John begins. “Because I’ve been with  _ you _ , you idiot. And despite your best efforts, I  _ do _ have a choice there. And I’ve been making a good one, I think.”

Sherlock stills, hanging on John’s every word.

“Moving back in to 221B was… more than I could have ever asked for. I’m so glad to be home. And going on cases again, sure. But my favorite moments, Sherlock,” John says, leaning forward, “are with you and Rosie. You’re my family. And yeah, you make me pretty fucking happy.”

“I do?” Sherlock asks before he can stop himself.

“Absolutely. Every day,” John says without hesitation.

“I… how?” Sherlock asks.

John thinks for a moment, smiling. He chuckles once, reaching for his glass to take another sip.

“By being yourself, I guess,” John says, looking at him.

Sherlock takes a moment, struck by John’s honesty; he feels incredibly naive for not even considering the possibility of  _ himself _ as a factor in his own study. 

Avoiding John’s gaze, he reaches for his glass, taking his time to drink.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says after a moment.

John freezes mid-sip, looking at him in surprise.

“Oh god, the wine  _ is _ drugged, isn’t it?” John says, only half-joking.

“No, no. It’s not,” Sherlock replies. “I promise.”

“Good,” John says, finally taking a sip as he eyes Sherlock. He swallows. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock says, meaning it.

“Without my permission, at least,” John says, winking.

“Noted,” Sherlock says, smiling.

Their waiter returns, arms full of steaming plates. Sherlock doesn’t think he’s hungry until the smell hits him: garlic, cheese, and meat cooked in simmering, creamy sauces. A glance over at John reveals the same; he’s practically drooling.

They both dig in silently, pausing in between for murmurs of appreciation or light chatter. Their wine glasses are slowly drained and refilled once more. Angelo checks in to make sure the food is up to par, answered by the stuffed mouths of both John and Sherlock as they nod and chew. 

It isn’t until much later when Sherlock is watching John sop up his sauce with a bit of bread that he returns to the subject, reluctant to end the night without a resolution.

“John, I need to apologise. Again. I-- All this time, I’ve been monopolizing your time in order to…” Sherlock hesitates. “To keep you away from potential--”

“Attachments?” John offers, pushing aside his clean plate to rest his arms against the table. He looked relaxed and loose, satisfied by the meal and his third glass of wine.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers. 

“Why?” John asks point blank, keeping eye contact.

“I…” Sherlock starts. He searches for an excuse, but a full belly and wine-loosened lips prompt the truth instead: “I find myself wanting to make you happy. It’s what makes  _ me _ happy, you and Rosie always in my life. Together.”

“So you  _ were _ jealous,” John replies with a smile, leaning a bit closer.

“I was afraid that there was someone new in your life, yes,” Sherlock answers. “I was scared, John. I’m still not used to that.”

“I know,” John answers. 

“I am trying,” Sherlock says, looking down at his glass. The deep red liquid reflects a distorted image back.

“Sherlock, I know,” John says, reaching over to tug at Sherlock’s hand and draw his attention.

“I can tell you now, because I’m pretty damn sure,” John begins, spreading his hand over Sherlock’s on the table.

Sherlock’s breath is caught in his throat, hand tingling with sensation. He feels frozen in place, every cell in his body attuned to John’s voice.

“I don’t plan on having anyone new in my life like that,” John continues. “I don’t want any new attachments.”

“You can’t know that,” Sherlock says before he can stop his traitorous mind.

John sighs, as though this question is familiar to him. He smiles, drawing his other hand over to lift Sherlock’s in a full clasp. He squeezes their tangle of hands on the table.

“I can, actually. I can know exactly that. Just like you said: after everything we’ve been through, the trauma, near-death experiences, all the lies and loss. This is the one thing that I feel like I know for certain,” John says. “Took me some time to get here, but yeah. That’s what I know.” 

Sherlock blinks, his vision going slightly blurry. He feels like he’s floating, anchored only by the massive amounts of carbohydrates that he just consumed. The wine buzzes through his veins, warming his already rosy cheeks. He feels his hand tremble in John’s grasp, answered by a calming back-and-forth motion from John’s thumb on his palm.

“I know that you make me happy, Sherlock. I know that you love Rosie, and she adores you, too. I know that you want to keep us safe, and happy. You want what’s best for us,” John says, stopping to swallow and take a breath. “I know that I love you, and I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

“You... with… me?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes,” John answers with a chuckle. He clears his throat, a flash of uncertainty in his features. “I know you don’t, or you didn’t-- do, that. Before. Or maybe now, too.”

Sherlock holds his breath, wondering if John will take his hand away, terrified at the chance that he might. He waits for the words to come, but there’s nothing.

“And that’s fine,” John continues, searching Sherlock’s face for any kind of answer. “That’s  _ fine _ If you don’t want, uh, romance or dating. Or to be attached. Just, maybe you can explain to me, and we can figure out--”

“I would,” Sherlock blurts, hand clenching in John’s grasp.

“--how we could-- what?” John says. “You would?”

“Yes. I would,” Sherlock answers. “I could try. With you, I want to.”

“Yeah?” John asks, unable to contain his smile.

“If you want me,” Sherlock replies.

“Oh  _ god _ , yes,” John answers easily. “I do.”

Sherlock feels his lungs empty in one gush of breath, eyes closing in relief. He feels John squeeze his hand, always the steadying force.

“So this is okay?” John asks.

Sherlock opens his eyes, blinking back moisture before it falls. He brings his other free hand to join the pile on the table, looking back up at John.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers.

And then they’re both smiling, grinning like fools while they hold hands over the table.

“Good,” John says with a small chuckle. “Should we... head home? So we can talk a bit more?”

Sherlock glances around the restaurant, immediately aware of how many strangers are surrounding them. His eyes land on Angelo in the corner, cleaning off a few menus. He’s not looking toward them, but wears a cheeky grin that lets Sherlock know he definitely had been.

“Yes. Let’s go home,” Sherlock answers, reluctantly pulling back his hands to stand.

“Let me just--” John starts, looking around for their waiter.

“We don’t need to bother, John,” Sherlock says, already pulling on his coat. “Angelo will never let you pay. If you want to test him, be my guest. But give me a head-start to gain a few blocks first.”

“Right,” John says, chuckling. “Understood.”

John reaches over for the last sip of wine, savouring the taste with a hum of delight before he stands to don his coat. They make their way to the door, slipping out onto the sidewalk as Sherlock throws one last grateful look to Angelo who answers with a wave and two enthusiastic thumbs-up. 

The walk back is quiet and chilly, their breaths puffing ahead of them as they navigate the streets of their city at night. Their arms brush as they walk, both Sherlock and John sneaking sly glances at each other every few moments.

Sherlock is just about to lament his lack of gloves when he feels John’s warm hand brush against his own. Unable to keep the smile from his face, Sherlock holds his hand steady as John brushes them together once more deliberately. Another brush, and he clasps their hands together. John’s palm is warm and comforting, his grip strong and sure. Sherlock stuffs his other hand in his pocket, cold forgotten, suddenly grateful he left the gloves at home.

John keeps pace with him as they make their way home, eased by the familiar habit of walking side-by-side for years together. Occasionally, John brushes his thumb back and forth across Sherlock’s skin, sending shivers down his spine under his heavy layers. The anticipation builds, excitement mixing with mystery and potential in a way that Sherlock has long associated with John Watson.

Finally, they round the corner to Baker Street. Their hands separate as Sherlock pulls out keys from his inner pocket, unlocking the door to push it open to the warmth of their home.

“I’ll get Rosie and meet you upstairs?” John says in hushed tones behind him as he closes the front door.

Sherlock nods, a small smile as John continues to gaze at him. Sherlock moves toward the stairs, climbing a few steps before turning back. John is still looking at him fondly.

“Are you going to watch me walk up the stairs?” Sherlock asks.

“Now that I’m allowed? Absolutely,” John says, smirking as he leans comfortably against the wall next to the door, openly ogling Sherlock.

Sherlock laughs quietly, looking down as his cheeks warm. His stomach feels light and fluttery despite their heavy meal, his heart beating wildly in his chest. With a surge of courage and not a little bit of showmanship, Sherlock whisks off his coat and drapes it over his arm, meeting John head-on in this new game. 

John’s view now unobstructed, Sherlock moves ever so slowly up the steps to their flat, exaggerating every move and flexing his gluteal muscles obscenely. By the time he reaches the landing, he’s grinning like a fool and John is muffling his chuckles below. 

Sherlock moves quickly once he’s out of sight in the flat, hanging up his coat and clearing the couch, putting books away in stacks and making sure his experiments are stowed. He dashes up to John and Rosie’s room, tucking away clothes and making sure her cot is ready. He clicks on the small night light in the corner and cracks the window just enough to regulate the temperature.

It isn’t until he’s standing in the middle of her room, John’s steps sounding against the stairs, that he realizes what he’s done. He looks down at his hands, his body, as though he doesn’t recognize himself: someone who  _ tidies _ . Now he stands awkwardly in the bedroom, unsure of himself and his new place in John’s life.

Amidst a panic between trying to calculate if he has enough time to run back to the living room or stay in Rosie’s room, John makes his way through the door with an armful of sleepy Rosie.

Sherlock is struck, quite certainly and suddenly, with how much he adores both of them. His worry melts as Rosie’s sleepy eyes find his and she smiles.

“There he is,” John murmurs, smiling up at Sherlock. “He came to say goodnight.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Sherlock says quietly in return.

Rosie reaches for Sherlock as John approaches.

“You were specifically requested for tuck in service,” John explains.

“Ah,” Sherlock says, hesitating for a moment.

John moves closer, lifting Rosie and settling her against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s arms come up automatically, but John holds his hands to steady her until Sherlock gives a small nod. Rosie mumbles in his arms, her breath warm against his shirt as he steps carefully over to her bed. John stands by while Sherlock settles her in the cot, her eyes staying mostly closed the entire time.

Sherlock looks down at her for a few long moments, John’s gaze momentarily forgotten. He studies Rosie’s face, her small breaths and tiny features; he wonders what the science is behind a bond like theirs, if only to make it stronger.

He feels a touch at his elbow and looks up at a smiling John. He nods his head towards the door, and Sherlock follows - only a little embarrassed at being caught in such a sentimental moment.

John leads Sherlock calmly down the steps, down into the living room. John takes a split second of surprise to consider the clean surroundings before settling down on the couch.

Sherlock hesitates until John pats the seat next to him. There’s a moment of silence, John shifting on his cushion.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Sherlock says, breaking the quiet.

“You’re doing just fine,” John says.

“No, I mean,” Sherlock gestures between the two of them, and then at himself again, and ends with some kind of wide, general wave. “This. All of this.”

“Ok,” John starts, brows furrowing. “Alright. How about… tea?” John suggests, hoping the familiar routine will help.

Sherlock shakes his head.

“A little bit of something stronger?” John suggests, standing to walk over to their liquor cabinet.

“Alright,” Sherlock agrees after a moment of consideration. 

John pulls two crystal glasses from one side and a bottle of bourbon from the other, pouring each of them a generous amount before returning to the couch. He hands Sherlock his glass before taking a seat next to him.

Sherlock takes a sip, and then another. John watches him carefully for a moment.

“Sherlock,” John says, and Sherlock’s eyes snap to his, wide and glassy. “You’re starting to freak me out again.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, blinking. “I’m trying to… I’m not sure how to explain.”

“Just… let me know what you’re thinking,” John says. “However weird it sounds in your head. I’ll let you know what I’m thinking, and we’ll figure it out from there. Together. Okay?

John reaches over, palm up. Sherlock slips his hand into his, and takes a deep breath.

“I’ve never had a relationship before. Not one that ever worked. I have no data, no experience, except for an overwhelming amount of evidence leaning heavily toward the conclusion that I am not made for anything like this. My few attempts in the past have always gone  _ horribly wrong _ and ended with each person  _ leaving _ and I can’t--,” Sherlock says in a rush. “It will be my fault, that it goes badly.”

“I’m not sure about that,” John says. “There’s two factors to this equation. Or even three, you could argue.”

“But, John--” Sherlock starts.

“We could go around and around in circles all night about the ways this could go wrong. Trust me, I’ve done it,” John says. “We could both screw it up, you know. But I think we have a lot invested in trying to make sure that doesn’t happen, yeah? Considering how long it’s taken us to get here.”

Sherlock nods, taking another sip of his drink with a trembling hand.

“You’re my best friend. We’ve been through literal murder, serial killers, kidnapping, robberies, every terrible situation you could think of -- we’ve done it, and we’ve survived,” John says. “We can handle  _ anything _ together, Sherlock. I’m sure of it.”

“We have been through quite literally everything, haven’t we,” Sherlock agrees, putting down his drink to rest his other hand on John’s. “I’ve spent the last few months so worried about the possibility of losing you again to a stranger but even before that, I think I knew that  _ I _ could potentially lose you by my own doing. Whether by not acting, or by finally saying something and you not feeling the same.”

“I didn’t say shit, either,” John says with a humorless huff of laughter. “Terrified of losing you, terrified of what it meant, terrified of my own damn feelings.”

“It was a lot. On top of everything else,” Sherlock says.

“And now?” John asks.

“And now,” Sherlock says. “It feels… essential. Almost obvious, as though--”

“It had been there the whole time,” John finishes with a smirk.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Did you steal that from some film?” He asks, unable to stop his smile.

“Maybe,” John answers.

Sherlock reaches for his glass again, taking a long sip.

“It’s a lot of talking for us, hmm?” John says, reaching for his glass as well.

“I imagine it might get easier in the long run,” Sherlock says.

It seems like a simple statement to Sherlock, but it causes a slight glisten in John’s eyes. Before he has a chance to backtrack, John clears his throat to speak.

“In the interest of… simplicity,” John begins, looking down into his cup. “Can I ask, right out, what we are? Or, er-- where we stand now, with each other.”

“I-- um--” Sherlock sputters, still unsure.

“I mean,” John tries again, sensing Sherlock’s panic. “In general terms, what you’re looking for. Or think you might want. From me.”

“Okay,” Sherlock replies, brows furrowed in thought. He takes a long time to parse through what he knows, what he understands, and what he thinks he wants. “I want to be your partner. Romantic. Your romantic partner.”

John smiles, so Sherlock trudges forward.

“I want early mornings with you. And lie-ins. I want playdates with Rosie, and deciding on dinner and arguing over bad telly. And cases. Though perhaps not as many as we’ve been solving.”

John chuckles, scooting a bit closer on the couch. Sherlock reaches forward, drawing his hand slowly across John’s arm, amazed that he is allowed. It’s a feather-light touch, sending goosebumps across John’s exposed skin.

“I want to sleep in your bed. Or you in mine. I want you to kiss me. I want you to hold me, to show me--” Sherlock stutters, swallowing hard as John brings his hand to cradle Sherlock’s knee, thumb brushing his inseam. “To show me what you like.”

John leans closer, his other hand brushing up Sherlock’s shoulder to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing along Sherlock’s lip. Sherlock  _ feels _ his pulse beating wildly in his neck, and knows John can feel it too.

“What I’d like,” John says, voice already a bit rough. “Is to kiss you. Is that alright?”

Sherlock nods, knowing not to trust his own voice any longer. His eyes slip closed of their own volition as he feels John come closer. John’s hand guides Sherlock to his lips, and finally they connect.

Sherlock feels the touch like a shock through his system; his lips press forward, desperate for more contact. John immediately responds with a quiet moan, tilting his head to slot their lips together. His hand clutches into Sherlock’s curls as the other grips his thigh. The sensation is so delicious that Sherlock nearly whimpers. 

John holds them together as Sherlock’s arms sweep down to his waist to bring them closer on the couch. They break apart as Sherlock shifts and clambers closer to John’s lap, legs overlapping. 

John smiles at him, lips glistening in the soft light of their living room. He pulls Sherlock down to him, capturing Sherlock’s lips once more, swiping his tongue slightly across the seam. He pulls back again, slotting them together in a different direction before Sherlock can take another breath. His mouth opens as he pants mid-kiss, John barely drawing back before he dives in again.

Sherlock whimpers aloud, heat growing and spreading through every limb. John responds with teeth, taking Sherlock’s bottom lip into a light nibble. Sherlock gasps as John chuckles, the sound vibrating between the two of them.

They pull apart with a wet sound, gazing at each other with the kind of fire that can only come from a steady burn over many years. 

Sherlock shifts, immediately eliciting a sharp “ah!” from John as he loses his balance, toppling backward and still clutching Sherlock. Sherlock flails an arm out to catch himself on the side of the couch, just before crashing his skull into John’s nose.

They hold the pose for a moment until John, head partially smothered by the cushion that he fell onto, begins to giggle. What starts as a few shakes, and then a low chuckle, soon grows into outright laughter. 

Sherlock finds himself laughing as well, arm collapsing with the effort as he rests his head against John’s sternum and holds himself upright. John’s arms come up around him as they laugh together, eventually petering out as they release the built-up tension.

Sherlock sighs, drawing himself up and off of John to stand. He looks down at John, ruffled and looking happier than he’d ever seen him sprawled on their couch. Sherlock finds courage he hadn’t known he had and holds out his hand.

“Can I tell you what I’d like?” Sherlock says, picking up their previous thread.

John leans up on his elbows, pushing to sitting before he takes Sherlock’s hand to stand.

“Yes, please,” John says, drawing near and holding fast to Sherlock’s hand.

“More of that, but in a bed. And mostly undressed, I think,” Sherlock answers.

John swallows, gaze turning from fond into hungry.

“Anything,” John says. “Anything you want.”

Sherlock turns, pulling John toward his bedroom. John follows, grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you prefer to avoid sex-type stuff, you are welcome to end the fic here.
> 
> If you're a dirty bastard like me, LET'S GOOOOO CHAPTER THREE


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final, smutty chapter. Thank you for reading this far!!

They walk into the dimly-lit bedroom, excitement and anxiety buzzing around them. John clears his throat, looking around even though he’s certainly seen Sherlock’s room before.

Sherlock flutters around for a moment, taking some things off of his bed, removing his jacket to lay it on the chair. Just as he’s turning back toward John, his eyes go wide with sudden realization.

“Oh! Wait--” Sherlock says, darting past John and running back to the living room.

John doesn’t need to wait long, as Sherlock returns triumphantly just a minute later, object in hand.

“Baby monitor,” Sherlock explains, setting it down on the table and flicking the sound on. After adjusting the volume to his liking, he faces John once more.

John is staring at him with an expression he doesn’t recognize.

“Did I… is that. Okay?” Sherlock asks.

John walks forward swiftly, gathering Sherlock close into his arms. He presses kisses along any skin he can reach, stopping at the crease of Sherlock’s jaw to draw in a deep breath.

“Yes. Very much okay,” John answers, and Sherlock immediately relaxes in his arms.

“Good,” he mumbles, arms wrapping around John’s back as he tilts his neck for more attention.

John spends an inordinate amount of time kissing and licking across Sherlock’s neck, nibbling along the exposed skin. He stops only to pull back enough to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt halfway, diving back in as soon as the new area is available. Sherlock delights in the attention, humming in pleasure as he relaxes even further. His hand comes up to stroke through the strands of John’s silky, short hair; he ruffles the softness at John’s nape, using his nails to scrape gently when John finds a particularly good spot.

Up at Sherlock’s ear, John draws Sherlock’s lobe into his mouth, releasing it after a short suck.

“Gorgeous,” John says breathily. “Absolutely gorgeous. I could spend all night--” John pauses to lick a stripe up the nearest strip of neck. “--just here. All damn night.”

Sherlock’s hands clench at John’s back, the sweat-damp material of John’s shirt clumping tightly in his hands. He gasps as John sucks a mark on his collarbone near one of his more prominent scattering of freckles, his legs shaking with the effort of keeping him standing.

“John,” Sherlock murmurs, only half-heartedly trying to stop him. 

“Hmm,” John replies, moving to the other side.

“John, should I-- ah!” Sherlock gasps at a sharp nip; apparently if he’s already speaking, it’s more likely to elicit a noise from him. He can feel John smile against his neck. “Should I remind you about what I said before.”

John begins to draw back, his kisses peppering rather than ravaging. 

“Right,” John says. “Bed with less clothes, yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies breathlessly. 

John steps back, providing Sherlock with a full view of his widened pupils, crumpled clothes, and mussed hair. He looks _ stunning _ as he smiles up at Sherlock.

“Got a bit distracted, sorry,” John says sheepishly, reaching for Sherlock’s hands to pull him close and place a peck on his lips.

“Not at all,” Sherlock answers, flushed with attention. He’s sure his neck will be a mess tomorrow, but he doesn’t care one bit.

John pulls them to the bed, releasing Sherlock’s hand to sit and remove his own shoes and socks. Sherlock begins to follow suit, his socks and shoes discarded and moving onto his belt before John reaches over to stop him.

“Let-- can I?” John asks, already in just his jeans and undershirt.

Sherlock swallows and nods, leaning back on the bed to allow John’s hands to roam.

John pushes the rest of his shirt buttons through, brushing the sides away reverently to reveal even more of Sherlock’s chest. John’s hands graze Sherlock’s skin, rough calluses lightly scraping along the pale expanse.

Sherlock shrugs the shirt off the rest of the way, eyes not leaving the spread of John’s hands against him. He watches transfixed as John slips the clasp of his trousers, slowly drawing down the zip. There’s no hiding Sherlock’s hardness as it strains against the front of his pants.

John continues, pulling Sherlock’s trousers off in one fluid motion. Tossing them to the floor by Sherlock’s shirt, John kicks off his own before climbing back to the bed next to Sherlock.

“Everything still okay?” John asks, hand hovering over Sherlock’s bare shoulder.

Sherlock nods enthusiastically, reaching over to pull John down onto him as they collapse back onto the bed. John grunts in the tumble, chuckling as they try to find each other’s mouths in a tangle of limbs.

They arrange themselves on the bed, heads near the pillows and somewhat horizontal, messy kisses and sweeping strokes stalling their progress.. 

Sherlock delights in the feeling of John, that strong, warm presence he’d always admired from afar finally in reachable distance. He’s greedy with his touches, spreading his hands over every inch that he can’t cover with his mouth. He’d be worried about his exuberance if not for John’s own fervor, clear in his enthusiasm and the noises he’s making: moans and hums of pleasure, the occasional gasp as Sherlock finds a sensitive spot.

A twist of limbs puts Sherlock in the interesting position of straddling John -- one he’d definitely imagined but never thought he’d _ have. _

Sherlock shifts to brace his knees against the mattress, eyeing John from his higher perch with a smug expression. John’s breath kicks up a notch as Sherlock wets his lips and slowly begins to move his hips, drawing out the movements that cause John to shudder. 

Spurred by John’s reactions, Sherlock strokes his hands along John’s arms until he can clasp their fingers together. He brings John’s arms above him, effectively pinning him. Then he grins in triumph, leaning down to lick at John’s lips as he moves his hips in time.

“Fuck!” John gasps as he breaks away from Sherlock’s lips.“Yes, yes—“

Sherlock uses the opportunity to delve deeper into John’s mouth, exploring slowly with his tongue. Each taste and sensation reveals something new, details he’d never knew he needed before.

John moans from below and Sherlock has to break away from his mouth to breathe, gulping in loads of air as his hips move faster.

“Oh, oh—“ Sherlock pants, unable to stop the sounds.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John says in response, looking up at him in wonder.

Sherlock whines and increases the pace, a burn in his torso as he clenches his eyes shut with effort. His mind whirs with potential scenarios as he chases this feeling: all the things he’s wanted to do, to say, all the places he’s longed to touch, the things he’s longed to know. 

His thoughts surge forward, losing track of the physical as he begins to get overwhelmed. He moves without thinking, hands gripping John’s too tightly.

“Sherlock,” John says, loud and clear as it rings through the room. 

Sherlock _ feels _ his focus immediately go to John, a calm energy washing over him as his movements slow to a stop. His eyes open, zeroing in on John’s: clear blue. 

They’re still breathing quickly, their panting loud in the quiet room. Sherlock aches to say something, anything, but John is letting the moment stretch. It is until Sherlock gentles his grip that he finally speaks.

“That was a lot, all at once,” John says with a soft smile. “Could we slow down?”

Sherlock nods, grateful for the direction. He releases his grip on John’s hands as they shift to their sides. Sherlock feels himself relax as their arms twine together.

“Thank you,” John purrs once they’re settled, trailing his nose along Sherlock’s cheek. He ends the path in a sweet, wet kiss at Sherlock’s chin. “Gorgeous.”

Sherlock hums in return, his legs shifting and stretching in contentment. John’s hand grips along Sherlock’s thigh, hitching the leg up as he peppers kisses along Sherlock’s jaw.

They kiss like this, sweet and slow, until a shuffle of limbs brings their hips in direct contact. Both moan at the feeling, already moving together again as their cocks create a delicious friction through the thin, cotton barriers. 

“That’s it, slow,” John whispers in his ear, nipping the earlobe when Sherlock speeds up in response.

“John,” Sherlock says, willing himself to slow and match the pace John has set for them. 

“Breathe,” John reminds him. Sherlock huffs in response, brows furrowed with the effort.

“Yes, like that,” John says in encouragement when Sherlock’s pace remains steady and sweet.

John keeps them here, that impending feeling building so slowly until Sherlock can take it no longer.

“Please, John. Off,” Sherlock stutters. “Pants, please—“ he says, hands already fumbling at his own waistband. 

“Right, right,” John says, scooting his hips back to give Sherlock a bit more room.

“Can you--“ John begins, but Sherlock has already discarded his own and is scrambling to remove John’s, fingernails scraping in haste against sensitive skin.

John’s pants are done away with quickly, shuffled down his legs until they’re past his feet and tossed across the room. A moment of tense silence follows, Sherlock’s eyes glued to him as he takes in this new stretch of skin, John eyeing him as well.

Suddenly, Sherlock is smearing kisses across John’s lips and anywhere he can reach, John responding in kind as his hands explore. Sherlock moans at each contact, tongue darting out to taste John’s skin. Sherlock shifts against him, feeling his hardness pressing against his stomach with every move. He kisses down John’s stomach and toward his crotch, each caress sloppier than the last.

“Okay, that’s,” John pants, eyes toward the ceiling as his back bows in pleasure. “That’s good.”

Sherlock smiles as he reaches his prize: John’s cock is thick and flushed before him, trailing a bit of clear liquid onto his thigh where it rests. Sherlock noses at the hair on John’s thighs and groin, avoiding his cock as his hands slide up until they grasp John’s waist.

“Sherlock,” John pleads.

Sherlock takes pity and runs his lips along John’s cock, ending with a flick of his tongue at the tip. He risks a glance up at John: eyes closed, hands gripping the sheets by his hips, toes flexed with tension. Sherlock has a brief moment wondering if this sight is possibly better than John’s smile, filing the thought away before opening his mouth wide and taking John inside the wet warmth.

He registers the strange taste, though his enthusiasm doesn’t falter. His hips jerk against the mattress as his tongue working across John’s cock in messy, wet strokes. Drool leaks from the corner of his open mouth as he moans against the soft skin.

Fleeting thoughts of of being inexperienced flit across his mind, drowned out by the moans of John writhing above him. Sherlock glances up, catching John’s eye; John’s responses make him bold and he wants to continue to render him speechless. He braces himself, sucking down John’s cock down as far as he can manage. He rolls his tongue along John’s skin, the soft surface a silky contrast to the pulsing heat it covers. Sherlock moans as John twitches inside his cheek, pushing against the stretched skin. 

“Fuck, fuck, Sherlock,” John says, hand coming down to lightly grip Sherlock’s hair as he bobs up and down.

Sherlock moans again, determined to push John to the very edge. He moves faster, hand working the bottom of his shaft in tandem.

“Sherlock!” John gasps, fingers tightening. “Please, wait — I’m gonna— stop, stop!” 

Sherlock pulls off, gasping with his now empty mouth, drool trickling down his chin.

John looks down at him with an unrecognisable expression, pupils blown black and chest rising and falling in quick breaths. He’s silent, looking down at Sherlock.

“Okay?” Sherlock rasps, suddenly worried he’s done something wrong.

“Yeah,” John says with a gasp. “Too good, actually. I didn’t want to finish just yet.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, still a bit unsure. “Should I...?”

John takes a breath before he pushes himself up to sit. Sherlock follows, rising up on his arms. Sherlock moves to kiss him where they meet, hesitating just before their lips touch. John completes the distance, hand reaching toward Sherlock’s cheek to draw him closer.

John kisses sloppily, encouraging their tongues to mingle as the taste of him lingers. Sherlock feels his cock twitch, aroused nearly to the point of discomfort.

“Can I-- here,” John says, drawing away to gently push Sherlock to lay down. “I want to…” He says, trailing off as Sherlock lays back.

John runs his fingers along Sherlock’s stomach, hand rising and falling with each of Sherlock’s quickened breaths. He looks to Sherlock for a nod before he takes Sherlock’s cock in his hand, stroking his fist slowly up and down his length. Sherlock moans at the contact, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure.

John leans down, tongue licking up and down Sherlock’s length. He uses his hand to get Sherlock slick before his mouth descends. He sucks the tip into his mouth, moving down every so slowly as he increases the pressure with his hand.

“Ohhh my god,” Sherlock says, hands clutching at the sheets underneath them, threads tightening with the strain.

John hums in agreement, moving his head slowly up and down. He works Sherlock like this for a bit, hand complementing his mouth to cover his cock completely in sensation.

“Oh, I’m--” Sherlock gasps, his stomach twitching as his muscles clench. “John, I’m-- wait!”

John backs off immediately, hand clenching around Sherlock’s cock. The reddened tip pulses in his hand, warm against his grip. 

“Wait,” Sherlock repeats, gasping for breath. “Can you. Can you come up here?” Sherlock asks.

John nods in agreement, releasing Sherlock’s cock to crawl upwards toward him. He settles at Sherlock’s side, hand draped over his chest.

“Hi,” John says, smiling over the pillow at Sherlock.

“Hello,” Sherlock replies. “I wanted you to be closer. Can we do that?” 

John hitches his leg over Sherlock’s, drawing them together. Sherlock takes the hint, shifting over until their hips are aligned again.

“Mmh, yes,” John replies. “We can-- mmh-- definitely do that.”

John reaches over, one hand hooking under Sherlock’s neck to draw their mouths together into a wet kiss. His other hand pulls him in by his side to press their cocks together.

John reaches down to wrap a hand around them both. Sherlock closes his eyes as his lips seek John’s mouth, hips twitching forward in John’s grasp. 

John pauses for a moment to bring his hand up to his mouth to add more lubrication before gripping them both once more.

“Fuck, that’s it,” John says as Sherlock thrusts up into his hand, creating a delicious friction against his cock. 

They move together, clutching each other as their hips jerk and push, seeking enough pressure to build to a release. John’s grip tightens as he picks up the pace, following Sherlock’s movement and his own mounting pleasure.

With a grunt of warning, Sherlock is coming in John’s hand, twitching in his grip and gasping into his mouth. John holds him close, murmuring encouragement as he spills in between them. Sherlock’s orgasm seems to last forever, the shudders rippling through him as John continues to work his own cock. 

Sherlock stays close, face buried in John’s neck and mouthing lazily there while John continues stroking until he feels his own climax building. He clutches at Sherlock as he comes, adding to the mess building between them as he spills across the sheets and their stomachs. He squeezes the last few drops from his cock before his hand drops limply to his side.

They lay entwined in their sticky mess for some time before either stir.

“Should, uh…” John rumbles, blinking blearily around the room. “Should get cleaned up.”

John makes to leave the bed, drawing his arm slowly from Sherlock’s side. A strange grumble sounds in response.

“What?” John says, his mouth quirking to the side as he looks down at Sherlock’s mess of curls.

“Strrmmmmrrr,” Sherlock says, still muffled into John’s neck and barely moving his mouth to form words.

John smiles to himself and strokes his clean hand through Sherlock’s mussed hair.

“Try that one more time,” John says.

Sherlock sighs, drawing his head back to a reasonable distance for speaking.

“Stay here,” Sherlock says, voice deep and rumbling. He tightens his arm around John’s waist for emphasis.

“We’re nearly stuck together as it is,” John says, though he snuggles a bit closer.

“And?” Sherlock says, nuzzling his nose against John’s chest, ruffling the fine, sandy-blond hair there. 

John relents, planting a sweet, wet kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. Just as Sherlock is relaxing into doze, John suddenly pulls himself out of the embrace.

Sherlock looks up, mouth agape and utterly offended.

“Just getting something to wash up,” John promises, hands up in surrender. “I’ll be back in a second.”

And with that, John slips into the adjoining bathroom. Sherlock listens as a drawer slides open, the faucet running for a few moments. 

John pads back into the room, cloth in hand as he pauses at the bedside table. He picks up the baby monitor, unable to keep a slight smile from his face as he watches his daughter sleep.

After a moment he’s satisfied, returning the monitor to the table and clambering onto the bed.

“C’mon then,” John says. “While it’s still warm.”

Sherlock grumbles something in response, keeping his arm tossed over his head dramatically but turning onto his back for easy access. John gives him a thorough wipe-down before returning to the bathroom to attend to himself. Sherlock climbs under the blankets, arranging the tangled sheets to lie flat over his legs and the rest of the bed.

When John returns, still unabashedly naked, Sherlock turns his head towards him, admires him fully, eyes travelling slowly up his body until he reaches John’s eyes, which are now directed toward him. He seems to be waiting for something, so Sherlock reaches over, pulling back the blankets and creating a space for John to lay next to him. John climbs in with a grin, shuffling over to Sherlock to draw him close.

Sherlock tucks his head underneath John’s chin, long limbs already twining around his.

“This okay?” John says, eyes, drifting closed in contentment.

“Obviously,” Sherlock answers.

“Good,” John agrees. “Should get used to it, then.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open, though John remains relaxed. They lay in silence for a few minutes until Sherlock clears his throat.

“Do you mean,” Sherlock tries, staring into John’s neck for answers. “That is-- does that mean, are you…” Sherlock trails off, sighing as he shifts restlessly in John’s arms.

“Say what’s in your head,” John reminds him, hand brushing up and down Sherlock’s spine. “And we’ll figure it out.”

Sherlock takes a breath and concentrates.

“Does that mean you’ll stay? Here in the bed, but also, in Baker Street?” Sherlock asks.

John draws back in surprise, looking down at Sherlock.

“Of course, yes,” John answers. “Yes. We’re staying.”

John pulls him close again, Sherlock noticeably relaxing in his arms.

“You’re going to have a hard time getting rid of us, at this point,” John continues.

“For the foreseeable future,” Sherlock mumbles, half-asleep already.

“For the foreseeable future,” John repeats with a smile. “Looking forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, thank you for keeping the love between these two alive, and thank you for existing.
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/cumberqueer) if you have any plot bunnies you'd like to throw at me :)


End file.
